Walk of Echoes

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Has he called yet, mommy?

Daiya Stone stopped at the living room window. She had made this same mind-numbing march more than a dozen times these last few days. Her heart quickened while pulling back the curtain as the mid-June sun gleamed through the two houses across the way. So much had changed, and yet, nothing had. A twosome of budding Bur Oaks danced a subtle waltz in the breeze as a pair of blue jays fluttered from one branch to another. One chased the other, zigging and zagging until they disappeared into the neighboring tree.

The sight became the perfect metaphor for her life. 

She often wondered, watching as the two continued their morning ritual, almost like clockwork, who chased who. Did the male hound his mate? Or was it the same as with her relationship: she hounded him.

Not yet, honey. Daiya glanced over her shoulder at Penny, smiling at the pink dress their daughter loved so much, and felt her heart drop. Her seven-year-old body sprouted much faster than her little brain. The Doctor – oh, how there had been so many in her short life – told them she’d be at least 6’1" by her sixteenth birthday.

Can I talk to him when he does?

Penelope Stone twirled, arms straight at shoulder level as her socked feet spun on the wooden floor. Oh, how she looked like her dad. So much so, Daiya had to turn away when the two of them locked eyes. The last thing she needed was for Penny to see the pain hiding deep behind her blueish grays.

Of course you can. It’s safe to say he won’t hang up without hearing your sweet little voice.

Promise?

Scouts honor, she said holding her first two fingers up next to her right cheek.

The gesture always worked. Not sure why; and not even sure if Penny knew what a scout was. But the simple gesture eased the young girl’s mind enough to get the conversation moving in another direction.

Thanks mommy. Penny twirled and danced out of view until the only proof of her visit were the faint pattering echoes as her socked feet hit the floor.

Their perfect lives had been torn into shredded strands of uncertainty two weeks ago when they sent Jack away. Daiya reached into the oversized pocket in her dress, feeling the lifeless metal filled with the gadgetry and technology she only half appreciated. Jack on the other hand, never left without his phone grafted to his hand and seemed to know more about it than she cared for.

She pulled the phone from her pocket and turned it over. At one time, leading up to the day they took her husband, the picture she left on her home screen of Jack and Penny on the merry-go-round made her heart flutter. Not so much today. And if their lives continued its current course, then even less tomorrow.

Stop it, she mouthed, tapping the phone screen. When it didn’t come to life, she shook it, tapped the screen again hard enough to make it sound like someone knocking on the door, and pushed each of the side buttons with the same ferocity.

"No!

How?

Turning her head as if frantically searching for a lost child, she forced herself to breathe, suddenly forgetting where she left the charger. How could I be so careless, she thought as the realization set in.

The bedroom, she whispered, and ran to the hall, turning the opposite direction of Penny’s room.

Mommy, did he call yet? Penny peered around her doorway in time to see her mother hurrying the last two steps before disappearing through her door. Why are you running? she asked, cupping her hands around her mouth.

It’s fine Penny, she gasped, burying the unevenness in her voice. Go play kiddo, she added as an afterthought, disappearing deep into her and Jack’s bedroom. I’ll come and play with you in a bit.

Penny squinted as if trying to make out that last part. You’re gonna come play with me? She hesitated, then smiled. Oh goodie Shelly. Mommy is gonna come play with us. Maybe we can have a tea party.

Daiya had no chance of hearing the end of their one-sided conversation. Nor did she wait for a confirmation. Instead, she paused just inside the bedroom door and searched, torquing her head... eyes shifting slightly a half second slower than her head. Where. Where. Where?

Then it clicked. She ran to the walk-in closet and found the charging cube and cable on the floor under the outlet. The simple act of standing in this spot brought back a flood of memories she didn’t want to relive.

This wasn’t the time to panic, though her mind drifted anyway.

It started with several distant knocks pulling her from the tangled haze of a quasi-night of sleep. One eyed, her long curly hair entwined after a night of tossing like a giant salad in a bowl, she climbed out of bed and listened for the sound. At first, Daiya didn’t realize she had her eyes locked on the small lump on his side of the bed.

Jack, a man who would do anything to protect those he loved, always kept an Easton aluminum bat on his side of the bed, tucked between the mattress and the box spring. You can never be too careful, he’d say. Wood breaks... aluminum dents, he added with a smile, hands choked up on the handle and chopped down as if taking axe to wood. Although the bat made a slight lump on his edge of the bed, she slept better knowing it was there, never thinking about it until... 

There it happened again. Sliding her feet into her slippers, she walked around the bed and pulled the bat from its resting place and headed towards the front door. Penelope. Had she gotten up for a late snack or, or was she alright. The thought made her sick.

Holding the bat tight, resting the barrel on her shoulder close to her ear, she lifted it slightly and toed towards Penny’s door as if ready to knock one over the fence. Every breath rang between her ears as her heart pulsed in her neck. Daiya listened, cringing at the groan from the wooden under her slippered feet, and reached for Penny’s doorknob. From the living room, their grandfather clock ticked a rhythmic tic, toc, tic, toc from the wall.

She reached for the door with her right hand, heart jackhammering while seeming to chase the ticking clock. Three ticks later, the clock struck 6 am. Daiya jumped back letting out a half whimper and blew air from her cheeks.

Relax, she mouthed. There it was again. Another knocking sound but a little more purposeful this time around.

Turning, still clutching the bat, she headed for the corner leading to the living room. Daiya peered around the corner, examining the entire width of the room and stepped into view of God and all His Creation (or at least everything created sitting in their living room anyway).

A quick hunger pang flashed after spotting the last half of a cookie sitting on a small plate in the middle of the coffee table. Both her and Penny finished off all but that lone half of the double chocolate chip cookies they made that afternoon.

The sight made her miss Jack that much more. When he was home, Daiya spent the occasional Saturday morning making a dozen of their favorite cookies as the two played Jenga until the sweet aroma pulled them away from their stack of tumbling blocks. Her inherited secret recipe was simple, coming from her mother (even though she found out later it was the exact recipe from the back of the Pilsbury soft baked cookie package), read that halfway through baking, take out the cookie sheet and press 3-4 Reese’s Pieces into the dough after it expanded.

Daiya smiled ever so slightly, swearing she could still smell them in the oven and froze mid-step.

This time she heard voices coming from outside. Distant, and rapid fire like. She lowered the bat and shuffled towards the window. Peeking through the slits where the two curtains came together, she searched the towering poles as they lit the streets under them as only a hint of twilight started to show on the horizon.

First left, then right, she searched the street until her focus switched three houses across the street and to the right. The Sampson’s, she whispered, and watched three men walk away from the door towards a black four-door sedan parked in front of the house.

She held her breath as Jessica Sampson stood frozen in time until she collapsed, suddenly convulsing as a younger girl towered over her from behind.

Mommy, Penny said from outside her door. When are you coming to play with us?

Daiya paused for a second as her mind drifted back to the current, waiting for that single word to register. The one that didn’t belong: Us.

Shelly doesn’t like cold tea, Penny added.

Now she understood. Okay honey, let me finish something real quick and I’ll be in. And tell Shelly I won’t let her tea get cold. Daiya stood on her tip toes as if that gesture helped the message make its way a little more expeditiously.

Without realizing it, Daiya had plugged in the phone and stood in the middle of the closet sometime before hearing Penny’s plea for her company. Her phone lay face up with the battery icon no longer showing red (red for dead Jack told her), but with a small sliver of green on its far left side.

Dropping to one knee, she tapped the screen and allowed her eyes to flicker when the picture of Jack and Penny on the merry go round popped up on her phone. She lifted the phone enough to ensure silent mode was turned off along with the volume turned all the way up. Leaving the phone to charge in here made the most sense. The last thing she needed for Penny was to see her with one eye on their little tea party and the other glued to the phone.

She stood, braced herself against the wall as the closet began to swim, bringing the back of her right hand to her forehead. The spells had gotten worse as of late. Maybe the unrelentless stress of the last few days or maybe just the fact that her body was finally giving up after this long fight.

Mommy, a distant voice yelled. Shelly-

I know honey. Daiya’s wavering eyes tried to refocus. I know, honey, she said a second time. This time much quieter.

––––––––

Sorry it took me so long, Penny. I got distracted in my closet and lost track of time for a few minutes.

It’s okay mommy. I was telling Shelly how sometimes you get lost in all those shoes. I hope I can have a closet full of shoes like you when I grow up.

Daiya smiled at the small table and rubbed the top of her daughter’s head. Let’s hope you don’t, she said, For my sake anyway, and peered over her shoulder back towards their bedroom.

Mommy, do you like how I set up the table?

I do. Daiya pulled the undersized chair pushed against the table and sat down, careful to not let her blood pressure spike with the sudden movement. Although, most of her spells came from standing up faster than her heart could pump the needed blood to perform the effort.

Mommy...

Yes hon. Daiya looked at her daughter who was staring across her bedroom at the dresser next to her bed.

When do you think daddy will call? I miss him so so much.

It won’t be too much longer, Daiya said following her daughters gaze towards the dresser.

I miss playing Jenga with him.

The tall stack of blocks stood next to her digital alarm clock, meticulously placed without a single piece out of line. I know you do. How about that tea. I can use a little pick me up right ‘bout now.

She lifted from her seat just enough to pour the imaginary tea into the three cups and sat back down.

Taking a sip, Daiya placed her cup on the table, interlaced her fingers while glancing at the empty chair across from her. Shelly, how’s your tea?

It’s perfect, Penny said. She told me so.

Good. With a forced smile, she lifted her cup again and pretended to take another sip of tea.

The topic of Shelly had surfaced three years ago when Jack had left them the first time. It took some time – more like two hours on a certain phone call - for her to stop pointing an accusing finger at her husband. The endless hiatuses instilled in their relationship almost ruined them more than once. In the end, she learned not to fault him whenever he left. The truth was, and this is something she still disbelieves, to an extent, even today, is that it’s not his choice to leave.

Except, he did have a choice. Everyone has a choice. It just so happened that his came to be as a result of making a series of bad choices. Anyone questioning the power of one’s surroundings is not in touch with reality, he said during one of their... discussions. 

Mommy, do dress makers make a lot of money?

I don’t follow what you mean.

This dress. Penny pushed the chair back and stepped around it until she stood in the middle of her bedroom. Twirling as she had in the hallway, she confessed, I love this dress. I want to make more of them in all kinds of colors and styles. They make me smile and smile and smile and smile, she continued, pirouetting a total of four times.

Don’t you get dizzy with all that twirling?

Nope. It’s fun. Penny spun one last time and faced the table. It’s called seeing... or watching, I can’t remember. It’s when you pick a spot and stare at it until your head is about to twist off. Then-

You pick another spot, Daiya finished. It’s called spotting, and yes, dancers use that trick to keep from getting dizzy. I’m surprised you heard of that.

Shelly told me to do it. She used to be a dancer.

Daiya patted the table where her daughter was sitting a few moments ago. Penny honey. Let’s talk about Shelly.

Sure. She likes it when we talk about her.

Honey, Daiya said, resting her cupped hand on her daughter’s forearm. You know Shelly isn’t real.

She is too!

No... I mean. Daiya huffed, regretting the opened can of worms sitting before them.

She IS real. She’s my friend. My best friend. Penny stuck out her bottom lip. My only friend. 

Daiya shook her head after seeing tears well up in her daughter’s eyes. I’m sorry. I know she’s real. It’s just sometimes we need to understand...

I DO understand. Penelope stood and stormed to her bed, plopping down on the edge as the springs groaned in the sudden shift in weight distribution. I miss daddy. I want him to come home. She lifted her head as a single teary stream raced down her left cheek, building into a good-sized tear drop at the jawbone.

Torn, Daiya stood, feeling another spell, and glared at Shelly’s empty chair. How could something – someone – who didn’t really exist cause so much distress in their lives.

Would you like a cookie? she asked, trying to calm the spinning room.

No! I don’t want a cookie. I want my daddy. I want us to be a happy family again, without all the yelling.

Daiya’s vision settled as her heart sank. How much had she heard? And when did she start listening to their... discussions?

For a split second, she considered asking what their daughter heard during one of their many arguments. No matter how many times she considered taking her, and leaving for good, letting him rot in the life he so aptly accepted, she didn’t. For better or worse; through sickness and health, she vowed to stay with the man she loved more than life itself.

Penny. Daiya stood as the sound of slamming doors came from somewhere out front of their house. Unable to move, she held back an optimistic smile thinking back to the last time they took him. When he returned, the two hugged so hard, she squeezed the breath out of him. You can’t do that. Do you know what that does to me when the knock comes?

He couldn’t apologize enough for leaving his key on the hook when they came to get him.

I’ll be right back, Daiya said, and yet, puzzled by the fact Penny didn’t jump up after hearing the same noise she heard.

Take your time, she whimpered. I’ll be right here crying my eyes out.

After a loud huff, Daiya turned and left the bedroom when the phone rang from her closet. Suddenly drawn, she ran to get the phone first. If it was Jack at the door, she’d have an entire grocery list of people to call and tell.

The man of my dreams is finally back.

Stumbling through their bedroom door, she lunged to the closet and picked up the phone.

UNKNOWN CALLER.

Angered, Daiya pressed hard on the red circle and dropped her hand holding the phone to her side. Anyone calling while hiding their number deserved a good hard kick in the shins.

Alright Jack. That better be you, she said and walked towards the door as the click clack of heeled shoes walking up the sidewalk made her uneasy.

The phone rang again. This time it was her mother. Not now mom, she said, and pressed the red circle a second time in as many minutes. 

She pulled back the curtain when everything – the ticking grandfather clock, the quiet click as the ceiling fan spun too fast, and the sound of her heart – slowed into a dream-like realm.

Three men, two in uniform while the third wore a black shirt under a black dinner jacket and a white band around the neck, strolled up the sidewalk. Each man had their heads down as if they were studying the shine on their shoes and walked in the slow, deliberate march she had seen way too many times as the wife of a combat Army Ranger.

Daiya let the curtain fall as she stepped back two paces from the window. The room spun in vicious circles as she reached for the couch to steady herself. No, she cried. "It can’t be.

Jack... it can’t be.

Holding her breath, she tried to push away from the couch. Instead, her body swayed. The same part of her brain charged with dealing with stress flashed the vision of a drunkard trying to keep his balance.

Her phone rang a third time. She lifted the screen into view. The same (or possibly another) UNKNOWN CALLER read across the screen. This time she jammed her index finger several times on the red button and let the call drop as with the first two.

Then it happened. The knock. Soft at first, then a little more deliberate. Shaking her head, Daiya refused to reach for the door.

Mrs. Stone. Um... I know you are in there. We saw you in the window.

The man’s voice was stern, yet soft.

I need you to come to the door, ma’am. We cannot leave until we speak to you. He cleared his throat, then added, Face-to-face.

Daiya reached for the door when the phone rang. Again, UNKNOWN CALLER read across the screen. This time she let it go.

She choked down a dry gulp of nothing and moved next to the door. The phone continued to ring as she reached for the handle. Unknowingly, with her thumb wrapped around the bottom of the phone, she hit the call accept button as she opened the door.

Mrs. Stone, I’m Captain Bush with the United States Army, the man said from the other side of the door. I’m sorry to inform you that...

The world went black. Neither of Daiya’s eyes registered the three men standing in front of them or the presence of the young girl standing in the doorway behind her.

She thought she heard another voice coming from somewhere she didn’t understand. The world spun as her knees went soft. Daiya dropped the phone. Her legs buckled, snaking downward. On the way to the floor, she hit her left temple on the corner of the table in a thunderous THUMP.

Simultaneously, two voices screamed two separate pleas.

Mommy, Penny yelled, sprinting towards her.

Mrs. Stone, the captain named Bush yelled.

Out of instinct, he opened the door and caught her head in time before she hit it again on the floor. Mrs. Stone, he repeated, checking her neck for a pulse.

Hello, a voice said from the phone. Daiya, it’s me. Are they there yet? It’s a mistake. I’m alive.

Captain Bush picked up the phone and turned to the second man (not the priestly one) and told him to call 911. He then handed the phone to the chaplain and started CPR on Mrs. Stone. For several minutes he did what he learned, trying to keep the woman alive, praying that the poor young girl screaming in the background would not have to wake up tomorrow with both parents’ dead.

The Chaplain brought the phone to his ear and listened, wide-eyed, checking the screen several times as he did so to make sure this wasn’t some cruel prank. After several unbelievable moments, he hung up the phone and knelt next to the unconscious woman. Mrs. Stone, he whispered. I am sorry. This is our fault and we’re here by mistake. Come back to us... to your family. Jack is alive and on his way home.

It took the paramedics eight minutes to arrive on scene. Captain Bush stood next to them, exhausted as they took over, and fought with the sadness bounding him like a boa constrictor killing its prey. He never did get a pulse.

They each watched as the paramedics wheeled the young woman into the ambulance and sped off into the distance. The young Sampson girl had joined them from across the street and agreed to take care of Penny until a family member could get there.

She put her arm around Penny and pulled tight. It will be okay. I can promise you that, she said, though not really sure if she believed it herself.

Penny looked up, cheeks flushed a bright red, and dropped her head again and cried more dry tears.

The young Sampson girl looked up and down the street each way, wondering how many other families would get the same walk of echoes. Too many more, she thought, turning the young Stone girl and leading her into the house.

A moment later, the door slammed behind them as a lone blue jay shot from one tree and landed on a branch in a neighboring one. Its nervous head jerked in all directions as if it was searching for its missing partner. 

My Dog Keeps Farting and I Can’t Make Him Stop

Donald Southland plucked the clipboard hanging from the wall with one hand and tapped his temple with the other. Some days, the barrage of oblique voices bouncing around his head was enough to send him straight to the Carprofen cabinet. Even if the pain medication was intended for K-9 use only, he considered dipping into one of the prescription bottles for his own personal relief from what he coined – mental inflammation.

Hey Doc, where the hell are my balls? I just went to lick them and...

Southland, hurry. The odor of these stupid dogs is ruining the utter enjoyment of my butt licking. I tire of holding my leg up while I wait for you. Plus, you must come find my newest pee. It was a gloooorrrrious pee. 

Speaking of mental inflammation, he whispered. He closed his eyes hard enough to screw his face into rows and rows of age lines, telling himself it never gets old, although, it always gets old. Several moments later, he skimmed the clipboard until reaching the final question on page one. The one question – for whatever reason – sent the internal voices away after he read the response, if there had been one.

DOCCCCTTTOOOORRRRR. I can’t stop scooting my butthole across the concrete. It hurrrrrttssss!

That was a new one, he thought, and chuckled even though he couldn’t fight back the grimace. Instead, he read that last question to himself as if he didn’t already know what it said.

Is your pet currently suffering from anything abnormal?

After reading the handwritten words, oh how many abnormal ailments had he seen over his decade-and-a-half, he rolled his eyes in a playful gesture and paused.

My dog keeps farting and I can’t make him stop.

Well, if this doesn’t set the tone for this Friday-

Donald stared at the scar on the inside of his left forearm and let time slip for several moments. He waited for the expected dull hum to fade away, giving him the okay to go about his Doctorly business. For whatever reason, the intermittent voices faded to a whirr of faint vibrations by the time he reached the end of the first page. To be more exact, it happened after reading the last word of that question’s response. Another oddity, one cloaked in elusive answers, was why it only happened right out the gate - before the first patient of the day. Which, over the years, helped him create a strategy to get past the incessant questions shot at him by the morning patients from the interior of the clinic. No matter where he stood, once he stepped inside the back door into the clinic, the barrage came at him from every direction inside these walls.

On a good morning, a legitimate comment or concern would come to him from inside one of the exam rooms. In turn, the information gave him the upper hand when standing in front of the patient and its owner. 

Overhead, an instrumental rendition of Welcome to the Jungle teased through the speakers as he began to bob and tap his foot to Axl’s missing lyrics. So fitting, he thought whenever the song made its way through the daily rotation. Most of his counterparts insisted on playing classical music, claiming the soothing sounds of piano and violin helped ease both the pets and their owners. Ha, ha, Donald thought, bite me. My practice; my rules.

Besides, he learned early on how important specific types of music helped his little problem more than those he treated. Bottom line, he knew rock & roll and didn’t know the difference between Beethoven’s Fifth and some over-played kid’s tune about an adolescent shark.

Over his fifteen-year stint as the sole proprietor of Wags & Purrs Animal Clinic, he vowed to do things his own way: Bucking the system. He and each of his patients benefited from this philosophy, so much so he held the number one clinic rating for the last twelve years within a hundred mile radius of Greensboro.

His view was simple: Just because you had four legs didn’t mean you weren’t a part of the family. So why not treat them as such? Bottom line, a doctor’s office (both human and animals), sucked. You walked in feeling like a number and then led to your examination room like you were off to the butcher.

In the door with puckered fart boxes and out with gouged bank accounts, was how he described Doctor visits to everyone during his undergraduate studies. As a fully licensed veterinarian, Not Wags & Purrs, he added after opening his own clinic. And surely not Dr. Donald Southland, he finished jabbing his own thumb into his chest.

Three things separated his little corner of the pie from every veterinary clinic within the voter’s arms.

One: Dr. Southland treated every patient as he would treat himself... as if he were the one facing a life-or-death decision. (Even to the extent where, in the case of euthanization, the family walked out of the office with an unexpected custom family portrait – one he and his staff strategically took and then had sent out for framing within their first few visits. No matter how many times they did this, their saddened tears turned into an immeasurable time of joy. One lasting for as long as they held onto the portrait.)

Two: Each of their five examination rooms had an exam table, two recliners for the family to wait in, a small refrigerator stocked with beverages, cat and frozen dog treats, and an over-sized downed feather bed for every Wagger to feel at home.

Three: –

Dr. Southland, the young woman said from behind the counter. The Smiths are ready for you.

Donald smiled at the young woman and tapped a finger on the clipboard. Thank you Rosalind. After flipping the first page over, he added, Let them know I will be right in after I finish up here.

He’d grown quite familiar with his first patient of the day. The Smiths, the very family where his special gift came to light, entrusted the good ole Doc since opening his doors to the public. Though not his first, they were one of the trusty handful that came to him that first week in business. Since meeting them, he admired the family after they instilled so much trust in him during their initial visit. Many pet owners search for an established veterinarian rather than a green one. Fact is, no one wants to trust their pet’s health, let alone their own, with a Doc still wet behind the ears.

Each of the three, Samuel, Becky, and young Rachael were every bit of your archetypal middle-class family from Greensboro. They had the typical life. A nice home in the burbs, a two-car garage and an overly large white picket fence, to keep in their fourth member at the time, Siku, within the boundaries of their little safe haven.

The only reason why he knew so much about their personal life came in the form of a house call. Siku, their six-year-old Akita had gotten run over by a car while chasing a rabbit down the road from their house.

From about a half block behind, Donald spotted the large dog darting across the street in front of an old F-150 truck. The rusted truck, one he described to police as the rolling definition of redneckness, had two flags posted at each corner of the tailgate. On the left side, an American flag, and the other, colored in Wake Forest gold and black, had the letters WF staggered across its center.

After hitting the dog with its crash bar, the truck turned a hard right and sped off until its loud exhaust fainted into nothing. Donald ran to the downed animal, immediately recognizing it as Siku. After several minutes of trying to save the dog’s life, and later finding out a broken rib punctured a lung, Siku looked up at him and then bit Donald’s left forearm.

It happened so fast, Donald didn’t have time to flinch let alone fight off the attack. With the same speed, Siku released his grip while holding his head up, staring at his victim. Frozen by shock, Donald gawked at the teeth marks reddening his skin. Two puncture wounds filled with blood trickled down his forearm leaving a slow reddened line. Oddly enough, it didn’t hurt.

Is he okay? a woman’s voice asked from behind.

Donald peered over his shoulder, seeing another car pulled up behind his. He nodded without realizing he did so and turned back towards the dog.

On the ground, Siku lay on his left side with his tongue half out. Gasping noises came from his snout as Donald pictured the mess of fractured bones and damaged organs under all that fur and skin. Why did you do that? he thought. Why did you bite me? He reached down to pick the dog up from the ground knowing time was the enemy.

Don’t bother Doc.

With one arm half tucked under the dog’s back hips, Donald whipped his head around. What did you say? he asked the woman bent over behind him.

I didn’t say anything.

She stood upright holding up both hands as if the gesture reaffirmed the statement.

It is I, Doc. The one my owners call Siku.

Donald turned his head back to the dog in a slow, deliberate motion.

No need to speak. My time is short. I can feel my soul slipping from my body.

How is this possible? he asked, not sure if he spoke the words out loud.

It looks like he got hit, the woman said from behind proving he did in fact ask.

Donald waved her off.

Your words fall on deaf ears Doc. I have passed on my gift to you... through the bite into your arm. What you’re hearing are my thoughts. The Japanese believe our roots are like the tree and can communicate as one. I can speak to humans. But only to those who are chosen. And you... Doc, are a chosen vessel. My first. And only.

No longer trying to pick him up, Donald gently set Siku back down and stood next to him. Watching a pet pass to wherever animals go, at least by his hand in a controlled environment, was one thing. Watching one make the same journey from an unfortunate accident was completely different. He scratched his head while walking back to his car, thinking back to what he’d eaten earlier in the day... or last night for that matter. His best option was to call Rosalind and have her go to the clinic and retrieve the Smith’s phone number. By his account, Siku traveled two blocks away from home before meeting his untimely death.

After offering only the basics of what happened, Donald promised to take care of Siku pro bono, and did so including a cremation service at the clinic. He hadn’t seen them since that day when they left carrying Siku in an urn with their dog’s name and face engraved on one side.

Donald walked through the door, half expecting to see a likeness to Siku when he witnessed the four of them huddled in the center of the exam room. Three of them, the two-legged family members, had ear-to-ear smiles on their faces.

Dr. Southland, Samuel Smith said breaking the huddle, hand extended.

Samuel, he returned shaking the man’s hand. How is everyone doing this fine morning?

At that, the newest member of the family jumped off the bed and raced towards the newest member of the room just as Donald dropped to one knee.

The small dog leaped from the floor and into Donald’s arms. Such a good. Boy, he said, letting the Alaskan Malamute pup lick his face.

I see you have now met Tabasco, Becky Smith said.

Young Rachel jumped up and down several times as if she had to go to the bathroom. Tabasco likes to fart, the young girl said waving her hand in front of her nose excitedly. And he stinks up the house.

Rachel, Becky said reaching down to settle their daughter. You’ll have to excuse her. She’s a little... outspoken at the wrong times.

With that, Donald heard a prffftt! come from the dog’s rear end.

Rachel waved her hand in front of her face several times. Here it comes. He smells like hot sauce and rotten eggs.

Both Becky and Samuel reared back pursing their lips while adding a tensed, agreeing nod.

Clearing his throat, Donald’s eyes burned the same way they did when something putrid entered his nostrils. He set the dog down on the exam table. Umm, okay. What is he eating?

Each of the Smith parents stole a glance at one another. Well, Rachel started.

I like dirty underwear the best. Yeah, yeah. Dirty underwear.

The seasoned veterinarian raised a single eyebrow while looking down at the small pup.

In all his years as the Doc for the little waggers and purrers, nothing ever surprised him. Except this time. The admission caught him off guard.

Tabasco reared up at him, tail wagging with so much excitement, his hind quarters wagged in unison.

Dirty underwear.

The small pup’s head bobbed up and down, tongue hanging out the right side of his snout, and looked as if he was agreeing with the confession.

Do you have problems with him, Donald hesitated searching for the right way to ask, but then switched directions. I’ll run him through a routine exam and draw blood. Rest assure, and I’m going out on a limb here by saying this, I don’t think there’s anything too serious going on, he said patting the pup on the head. Just a puppy being a puppy. Right? Just a puppy being a puppy, he added in his favorite puppy voice.

Yeah, dirty underwear. I like dirty underwear.

He ignored the repetitive comment. Although, it may be a good idea to keep shoes, trash cans, and, again he searched for the right words, dirty clothes out of reach. Dogs can find their way into the most precarious places. Especially puppies.

I can smell a turd. Where’s the turd?

Doc, where’s the turd?

Three Twists of The Crown

––––––––

Drake Eilif heard the end coming before the sight of them could send his skin crawling. The angry mob spent the better part of the last day chasing him through mountainous desert terrain that should’ve stopped any sane person in their tracks. But this collective group of cranks had zero sanity.

They had a debt to settle.

One on the King’s behalf.

Wavering, with one foot dangling in space while the other tensed on the hard-packed rock under his bloodied bare foot, he tried pushing their war cries away. How they continued with the same fervor was enough to question their humanity, he thought. With a two-hour jump, they still managed to catch him, and sounded more insane than when he first heard them gathering as he jumped out her window – less than half dressed.

Eyes closed, heart and lungs slowing but still thudding, he allowed the pain to consume him to a point, then focused his energy on every tendon and ligament and muscle fighting against the gust’s insistent desire to send him over the edge. Funny thing about pain, it had a predisposition to give way to adrenaline.

Until it didn’t.

Without thought, he raised his arms for balance, body snaking in one direction as his arms pivoted either up or down depending on the strength of the wind. Why did one move this way when trying to keep their balance, he didn’t know. Was it survival? Or instinct? In these moments, he wished he paid more attention, nose in books instead of head up ass (as his father said on far too many occasions). Something about pivot points and center of mass, he reasoned. However, wasting brain power on science stuff like inertia or masses in motion kept him from thinking about important stuff.

Like... why was he the one responsible for jumping through time? Although be it, he kinda enjoyed the element of surprise. Something about not knowing where I’m gonna land next offered a type of addictive euphoria.

He let the pointless mind chatter slip away, feeling the sun bearing down on his shirtless skin, and focused on surrounding sounds as the breeze whistled across the mountain tops. Overhead, the same large bird he followed to this very spot screeched. With one eye open, he spotted the falcon gliding in large, lazy circles. Its wingspan spread wide, casting a shadow as the bird drifted under the sun.

Three moons passed since his last jump.

Three moons and four marks to the dial to be exact.

Since landing here - he still didn’t know exactly where here was - after the last jump, he developed a better understanding of the true meaning of his last name. Eilif: Outcast, alone; persona non grata. The latter more so than the former. Every bit of him felt the unaccepted and unwanted person he had become in this world.

And yet, the increasing list of questions ate at him like a tick buried deep under his disheveled brown hair.

The most pressing one. Where was here?

He had no idea.

There were no cars or electricity. Only walls and rocks and an endless amount of burning hot sand outside the one city visible for miles.

The second. What year was this?

Again, he had no idea. As with many of his jumps, this place remained an enigmatic secret. Nothing more than a mystery place amidst a mystery date.

The most pressing question surfaced after several hours into his run for survival. Why had he bedded her?

Apparently, no matter in what century, a father frowned upon his daughter lying with a man without a single drop of kingship in his bloodline.

After a moment, when the wind settled, Drake removed the small circular timepiece from his right pants pocket. At least he managed to get out with something covering his important parts. No underwear, which equaled some serious chaffing after spending more than half the day running for his life.

The simple act of touching the timepiece with bare skin made his body shudder, even in the intense midday heat. Time was of the essence, and he didn’t have the luxury of a cloth to buffer the chilled metal on his palm. Early on, he felt the ghostly chill of the timepiece whenever he touched it with his skin. The first time made him vomit so severely, he thought every bit of his insides would end up at his feet. 

Breathing in, he pinched the crown with his thumb and index finger and twisted it clockwise almost in a snapping of the fingers motion. From behind, the faint groans of the angry mob escalated to snarling growls. A minute... two at the most he figured, before they reached the ledge and shoved him over the precipice.

A full day’s work completed in a matter of a second.

Drake started the second spin when a realization set in. I don’t even know her name, he muttered. The swirling wind drowned out the words, but he could still hear the declaration in his head.

He gave another full spin of the crown. Now there were words mixed in with the looming groans coming from behind.

Get that fucker, a man said.

That was pretty clear, he chuckled. The gent doesn’t even sound winded. How in the bloody hell is that possible!

From above, the circling falcon lifted high into the air. Not sure how, but Drake recognized the act as catching a thermal. Oh, I did pay attention during science.

The large bird squawked, changed its trajectory, and flapped its wings into a full-on dive... towards him. Drake’s eyes rounded, now the size of skipping stones, and watched somewhat in awe. Its fierce eyes seemed to bore into him like giant screws twisting into his skin.

I’m going to shove this-

Drake whipped his head back. The Get that fucker guy had moved ahead of the pack, now within throwing distance. He was huge, and harry, bigger than any man he’d come across in his long days of jumping time. In one hand, a spiked club wavered overhead as the ugly bloat pointed with the other hand. Another squawk pierced the wind. This too was much closer.

Peering down at the timepiece, he pinched the crown a third time and slammed his eyes shut, hard enough to create an explosion of white spots behind them. He twisted it the third and last time and leaned forward.

From behind, small rocks smacked the back of his legs as he went over. The giant man swung the club, grazing the back of his neck with the tip of one of its spikes. However, it didn’t matter. Drake went over with his arms out like a pair of wings. The hot wind beat against the front of his body even though the chill from the timepiece still ran through his clutched hand.  Picking up speed, the jagged rock wall raced in a blur. On more than one occasion, he missed their sharp edges by a mere inch and continued his fall without a single concern.

Before coming to a stop, he opened his eyes, which never made him feel good about taking these plunges. Wind raced through his hair while making each of his baby blues water. The falcon, still in full dive, but now next to him, raised its tail enough to transition into straight flight. Drake craned his neck back and watched as the bird coasted out of view. A moment later, he looked down.

With not as much as time to gasp, he slammed into the mountain’s hard rock base with an echoing thump.

***

Drake came to, more groggy than pained, and wrestled with the same first question each time.

Am I dead?

Followed by the same first answer. Dammit, no. At least not yet. 

How many times had he done this? Thinking of the answer made his head hurt. Or maybe the sudden stop at the end is what pained him. Nonetheless, he stopped trying to count. Because... that’s what really made his head hurt.

Pushing onto all fours, he wrinkled his nose after taking in a fresh breath when a stench burned the back of his throat. Something did not smell right. Dead? Rotting? Either way, it wasn’t him. Standing, and giving himself a once over, if nothing else, for peace of mind that the smell wasn’t him, he brushed off his pants and then his coat when it occurred to him.

Clothes. I have clothes again. That single luxury, made him smile.

He gave everything within eyeshot a once over, turning in a slow circle and checking for any obvious dangers. Once, three jumps ago, no, four, he landed inside the den of two tigers. Luckily, each of the wild beasts - covering far too much ground between the two of them - lay on their sides passed out and snoring loud enough to make him think they were growling. One snored so loud, the other lion lifted its head and looked at its partner, then dropped back to the ground and resumed its snoring.

His only relief came from seeing a half-eaten carcass, remnants of a deer of some sort he figured, laying at the mouth of the den a few feet away. Somehow, he made it through the eye of the cave with no more than a stir from a tail.

Drake studied the tall trees surrounding him. Thick brambles encircled most of their bases with the slightest hint of a trail snaking between a pair off to his right. Towering into the air, interlacing branches helped keep the overcast sky out of sight.

When the dream came to him, it never offered particulars, but vague details. Visions of where to jump (but never on how to get there), and glimpses of the new environment he’d land in is all his subconscious offered. Not to mention the bird. That damned fowl. Always different in kind. Once awake, and always coated in sweat, he realized the dates and times had turned into the same ambiguity as that of the number of times he jumped.

He turned his head to the left, just enough to raise his right ear, and listened. Nothing. Not a sound; not even a distant breeze rustling through the trees or a critter scurrying through the brush. Then it caught his eye. A gold glimmer buried in the green a foot away from his left boot.

There you are, he mouthed, and reached, plucking the timepiece from the ground.

At first, he drew his hand away. The cold metal haunted him in ways he couldn’t put to words. Stop, he muttered. You know how this works.

He picked it up and stood, scouring both the front and back for damage. Not a scratch to the glass or a dent to the gold case. Unscathed as always.

Do you always talk to yourself? a voice asked from somewhere behind.

Drake jerked around in a quick circle. Who said that?

Continuing his circle, he then stopped, waiting for a reply. The silence grew even more deafening. In that moment, he swore the words came from the timepiece.

Humans, you are such a simple species, the voice said.

Repeating the circle, this time turning in the opposite direction, he stopped after his eyes landed on the overgrown trail winding between a pair of trees.

Raising a brow, he stared at the path as if not really trusting what he was seeing.

Relax human. Your eyes do not deceive you.

Drake stared. You’re a-

You can say that.

But, how?

You mean how can I speak so you understand? Or is it how can what you humans call a turkey buzzard have both two wings and two arms?

Umm, all three.

How do you mean, all three?

Drake tucked the timepiece into his pocket and rubbed his eyes. "First, how can you talk. That answer should also cover the how I can understand-

Wait, you don’t even have a mouth, Drake said, screwing up his face as if he just sipped lumpy goat’s milk.

In that, the turkey buzzard turned its head, first left, then right, shifting its gaze over the human’s shoulder. We should go. They will be coming soon.

They who? Drake asked, turning enough to follow the buzzard’s eyes.

We can discuss those details in due time. Right now, be concerned about them finding us. It will not be pleasant by any means if they do.

Wait, Drake pleaded. What do I call you?

Zeearus, the buzzard said, and turned, disappearing down the path into the thick grass.

After one last glance at where the buzzard named Zeearus looked, Drake heard the distant screech.

The sound, pitched high enough to break glass, reminded him of long fingernails inching down a chalkboard. He swallowed hard as a distant tree toppled over somewhere in the opposite direction of where Zeearus vanished. Under his boots, the ground vibrated.

I wouldn’t stay there, Zeearus said in a hauntingly distant voice.

Drake faced the path and took a deep breath. The pungent smell, like someone setting sulfur to flame, burned his throat again as he forced his way through the thick overgrowth.

From ahead, Zeearus offered another piece of advice. A piece that would prove to be fatal as the journey carried on.

Don’t touch anything Hixicos, Zeearus blurted.

Hixi what? Drake yelled back, hands at his face while large and small leaves brushed his clothes. They both moved along the path while the brush thickened so much, he lost sight of the route more than once. Sharp brambles poked through his pants and burned the few times they hit skin reminding him of straight alcohol on an open wound.

Hixicos. It’s a color. Reddish purple in your language. Don’t touch anything reddish purple. It’s poisonous.

Great, Drake jabbered, now searching each of the nearby plants for the poisonous color.

Just then, the ground shook under his boots a second time. This one was much more violent than the last as he pictured another tree slamming to the ground. Then another screech followed, sounding more determined... and closer.

For the briefest moment, Drake had the urge to twist the crown three more times. What would happen? It’s something he never considered prior to now.

Nothing, Zeearus said. Nothing will happen. You have made the final jump. What happens from here is destiny.

Destiny? Who’s destiny?

Drake pushed away a large branch when he spotted movement on the trail ahead.

C’mon, Zeearus whispered. In here. We will be safe in here.

One before the other, Zeearus before Drake, the two stepped between two downed trees, each with split branches creating a double Y, and backed deep into the cavern that seemed to appear out of nowhere.

Drake whispered leaning towards the buzzard, What is this place? That’s when the smell hit him; again.

Zeearus twitched his head to the left, then the right. Sorry, he said. It’s what you humans call nervous gas.

Drake stared at the bird. You’re kidding, right?

Zeearus scrunched his neck. Sorry, he repeated, this time using the word as more of a pleading question.

Outside, not far from their hiding spot, the screech barreled through the forest as another tree thudded after slamming into the ground. Inside, the two fell into one another and steadied themselves as the earth shook enough to make each of them lose their balance. 

As the ground settled, Drake forced himself away from the buzzard. Its dank stench made his toes curl in his boots. The ground again shook, this time without the thud of a falling tree, but that of something large and heavy stomping into the ground.

What is that? Drake asked.

Zeearus shook his head. One of the most hideous creatures this side of the rend.

Exactly what is a rend?

Another screech shot at them as a blast of foul air followed along, smelling worse than anything the rotten buzzard could expel from...

Do birds have... like buttholes? Drake asked honestly.

Zeearus peered up at the man shaking his narrow head in disbelief. How do you think-  

Just then, four fingers and two thumbs, one on each side of the fingers, entered the cave, clawing and flexing as if clutching at the air. Drake leaned away. Zeearus did the same in the opposite direction as both backed into the end of the cave and glanced at the other with the same question on their minds.

What do we do?

Extending, at what length it could reach neither of them knew, the fingers stopped well short of them. At least a hand’s breath. (A giant’s hand breath they guessed.) Drawing back, the fingers disappeared then came at them with so much force, the protective trees outside shook. The sight and sounds made Drake think of a bull ramming a gate.

Drake glared at the buzzard, who in turn opened both wings and tucked his arms into his body, then mimicked the beast. Short arms, he said. Like a water reptile. It can’t reach us.

Zeearus, now in jest, moved in circles, waving his short arms in mockery of the beast.

Stop, Drake begged when he realized that, outside, the world suddenly fell silent.

Okay, good, Zeearus said. The Hell Reaper is gone.

Drake slowly turned towards the buzzard and glared at him sideways. Hell Reaper.

Yes. Hideous creatures, they are. They’ll eat anything that moves. Sometimes things that don’t, which is probably why their breath smells of... Zeearus trailed off as if the rest of the thought vanished, then picked back up. A funny thing about the dreadful beast, the harder it has to work, the angrier it gets. The smelly thing will return soon enough. Once it gets focused on a meal, it won’t stop. I’m sure of it. As sure as the gas from my backside smells of beans and bacon. That is... unless the thing never left.

I’m not laughing, Drake said, watching the cave’s opening with the focus of someone waiting to spring into action. What is this rend you mentioned earlier?

Oh yeah, it’s a hell gate. Hence Hell Reaper. See the correlation? Zeearus jerked his head, peering and blinking at him repeatedly with both eyes as he spoke.

I can’t believe I’m stuck in here with a stupid farting bird. An ugly one at that.

I take offense to that, Zeearus said jerking his head so each eye caught a glimpse of the ground, and then pecked